Flea Flicker

I am feeling better.

Trinket is not amused.

She gets flea medication. She is not at all happy about goo being dribbled on her neck where she can't wipe it off.

She gets an antihistamine shot.  She is evidently allergic to flea saliva.  What?

And for the big finale, she gets an antibiotic. Not a liquid. Not a pill. Another shot. And for this one, Dr. H brings out the gear.

First, to prevent any scratching potential from my beast of unknown rabies status, the good
Doctor picks her up in a bath towel. That way even if The Trink decides to treat Dr. H's arm like a scratching post, she is ensnared in a terry wonderland of confinement.

In comes the tech. She is carrying a weird plasticy, leathery-looking thing with strings. It looks like a little cat-sized bustier.

Not so. It is a muzzle. Evidently Trinket will be inspired to bite as well.

The tech straps the bustier on Trinket's face and tightens the laces. She can not open her little toothy feline mouth even a hair.

But she can peer through the little hole at the end of the cone at me. I can see her and she can see me. And her face says it all. "I will kill you the minute I get out of this thing. This is your only warning."

And then in a lilting, sing-spongy voice, Dr. H pulls out a syringe and puts a whammy on my cat. Then with jackrabbit swiftness, the tech scoops her away and jams her into her carrier, deftly removing the bustier as she slams the door shut.

Then I get a little lesson on displaced aggression and avoiding being bitten by my potentially rabid cat.

And I get flea meds, flea saliva oatmeal shampoo, some antihistamine pills, a pill cutter, some salmon pill pockets, some chicken pill pockets, some info on flea infestation, a bill for $186.00 and a business card from Dr. H.

One-hundred-eighty-six dollars? No wonder she's so damn pleasant.

I take my stunned and pissed off cat to the car and get in.

And then I cry.